For Blood is Thicker
by equinechic
Summary: His eyes rolled up in his head as he collapsed to the floor. Boromir stared at the blood on his hand. What had happened?
1. For the Want of Sleep

What happens when you combine a boring, old Human Biology Professor and a mass lecture class? A story! Just a little something that I got inspired to write from a dream I had. Lord of the Rings still doesn't belong to me though...sighs Ok, on with the show, I have to go write a research paper within the next three hours, so I have to hurry!!! Oh yeah, Enjoy!

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For Blood is Thicker

_Almost there, _he thought to himself,_ almost there. _Then he would make his report and get some much needed rest.

The white gates were well within sight now, the city looming ahead mightily, and he straightened from his slumped over position on his horse. He had been struck in the shoulder by an arrow earlier that afternoon it was paining him considerably. He had pulled the arrow himself, wrapped his shoulder as best he could with what limited supplies he carried. The bleeding had stopped; he now only worried about keeping it clean from infection.

His outer jerkin hid the wound, for which he was glad, for he wished not to cause a fuss on his return, only to sleep. The blood from the wound had dried and was no longer visible against the surrounding material. With any luck, he would be abed within the hour.

He vaguely noticed a trumpet sound off, following which the gates slowly creaked open. He nodded to the guards and sighed inwardly as he looked ahead at the long ride uphill ahead of him. As he reached the sixth circle, an attendant came out and held his horse for him to dismount. He was beyond grateful, for he could then concentrate on dismounting as painlessly as possible, instead of stilling his restless mare. The shoulder ached mercilessly, but so long as he kept it still, it was bearable, little more than a consistent, low throbbing. More than anything, he knew, he just needed to rest, then he would heal.

He let his feet drag as he walked slowly to the seventh circle, resisting the urge to lean against the wall. He muttered a curse under his breath at the orc whose arrow had imbedded itself in shoulder, causing him such discomfort. He groaned in pain as he pushed the doors open, trying not to show his exhausted state.

_Oh this will be fun._ He had soon found his father, located in one of the council rooms not far from the main entrance. He edged his way in silently. There were perhaps fifteen men crowded into the small chamber, rapidly discussing current happenings in the military. Boromir was there too, breaking up a disagreement between an aged military officer and a young man of the court. The voices all jumbled into one, ramming back and forth between Faramir's ears and the room seemed abruptly too small and crowded by his presence.

He drew a sharp breath as his vision suddenly blurred. Willing it to focus he pushed his way back out of the room, past the door. Dimly he could hear his name being called. Boromir. So his presence had not gone unnoticed.

Faramir found himself leaning, back against the wall, with his eyes shut, forcing himself to take long, slow, deep breaths. It seemed to be helping; his head already did not feel quite so light as it had moments ago.

"Are you alright?" _Boromir…_

"Fine, just weary. The crowd in there was merely making my head spin, that's all." He smiled and opened his eyes. _Just focus on your words and ignore the pain, the sooner you can lay down._

"Well I must say, the military discussions in there are enough to knock any man off his feet. Did you hear those two in there?" He laughed, referring to the argument he had just smoothed over. "Have you eaten?" Boromir noticed the drawn look on his brother's face.

"Not since morning." He closed his eyes again.

"I'll have something prepared; I dare say you could use it. Shall we dine in my room?"

_No, sleep, that's all I need, just let me rest._ "Boromir I must lie down first, please, if only for an hour, I must rest." He opened his eyes when he felt his brother's gaze studying his face. Determined to ignore him, he made to leave, pushing away from the wall that had been keeping him upright with both his elbows.

Somehow he restrained himself from crying out in pain as leaned over, one hand supporting himself against the wall, the other hugged tightly to his chest, willing the pain to subside. He could not stop the cry from escaping his lips as he felt Boromir's strong grip suddenly grasp his shoulder, attempting to steady him. _Fool! _It felt as though a raging fire had just erupted from within his flesh.

He struggled against the pain a moment before crying out again, collapsing against Boromir, his head resting on his brother's broad shoulder.

"Sweet Eru, Boromir, please," he gasped, "please…let go."

Shocked at causing his brother such pain, Boromir let go of Faramir's shoulder, and used his hands instead to help his brother back to an upright position.

Then he froze. There on his hand…blood? His hand was stained with the crimson glow of fresh blood. He looked up, hurt eyes, questioning, searching for Faramir's. He found them just as they rolled up, as Faramir collapsed, falling to the marble floors.

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Tbc...if you guys want me to that is... 


	2. Fright in the Hallways

Sorry, I meant to get it up first thing this morning, but I was busy with class work...geology projects and such. I was also up till 4:00 in the morning...that's when I usually have to get up for my horse shows, so I don't know what i was thinking (oh yeah, I was reading a really good story!) Anyways, a big thanks to all of my reviewers, very nice. If interest is still shown, I will continue the story. I have no rights to Lord of the Rings or any of Tolkien's work but I do have the right for a nap...which I will take...starting now.

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For Blood is Thicker

Boromir stared down at his brother's still form for a moment, noticing instantly the evenly spreading patch of blood on Faramir's jerkin, soaking his shoulder as the material quickly became saturated. Boromir stumbled backwards in alarm.

"Father!" He fell to his knees, seeking the source of the blood flow. He deftly pulled the jerkin aside, revealing an equally stained tunic beneath it. Cursing under his breath he tore that aside too, finally revealing an angrily bleeding arrow wound. Without hesitation he pressed his hand firmly against the wound, grimacing as he felt the blood against his fingers. "Father!" Beneath his hand he felt a slight twitch.

"What happened to dinner?" Faramir groaned out.

"Later, my brother." Boromir cupped Faramir's cheek with his other hand, offering what comfort he could. He noted his brother's face, growing rapidly paler by the moment.

"Father!"

"What?" A strong voice bellowed out as footsteps approached the camber door. "Faramir?" The voice grew quiet as the Lord Denethor rushed into the hallway. Unsure of himself he knelt down next to his eldest. His hand sought out Faramir's cheek, hoping for some sort of reaction, but the man had already passed clean away.

Other men had joined them in the hall, quietly murmuring at the display before them. The aged officer sent one of the younger men off in a swift search of a healer.

Boromir noticed suddenly that his father seemed overwhelmed by the situation and was starting to shake, slowly going pale. Boromir dared not move from his brother's side though.

"Someone attend to my father, see to Lord Denethor!" He ordered, relieved to see that his uncle was already assisting the man to sit down, and rest his back against the wall.

Imrahil observed the haunted look on his face, knowing all too well what images were plaguing him: sixteen years ago, his beloved wife Finduilas coming to him while he was in council, blood on her fragile body. She had never fully recovered from Faramir's birth and she had begun bleeding again unexpectedly. Denethor had held his wife in his arms, in this same hallway, begging her to stay with him as she continued to bleed.

Everything possible was done for her, but to no avail. She had died the next day. Imrahil knew exactly what words were stampeding through his lord's mind; _not again, please, not again…_

Imrahil's attention was diverted by the approaching footsteps of a healer hurrying down the corridor. Boromir didn't appear as though he were about to move, so Imrahil took it upon himself to greet the gentleman. The healer however, had other plans, as he brushed past him, instead kneeling besides the sons of Denethor.

The man's name was Morcion. It meant bear, and Imrahil knew to stay out of the man's way, for he could certainly act like a bear when annoyed. Other than the healer was overall gentle…but they all knew not to irritate him

"What happened?" He moved Boromir's hands away so he could better asses the wound.

"I'm not entirely certain. He doubled over in pain and I grabbed his shoulders to steady him. Unknowingly I must have aggravated this." He gestured to the wound, still bleeding over on his brother's flesh. "He said he was tired, I did not know he was wounded. He fell against after I grabbed him and collapsed altogether soon after that." Boromir bit his lip, staring down at the blood coating his hands.

And him?" The healer made a quick nod towards Denethor.

"He froze suddenly like that and hasn't moved. I don't understand what happened, but he is unharmed." Boromir started when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to find his uncle's eyes piercing into his own.

"It's because of your mama," he said quietly. Morcion nodded in agreement.

"He'll be alright in a moment, he's is merely taking a moment to calm the flood of emotions inside. Now if you would, we need to get Lord Faramir out of this hall." He stood and looked Boromir straight in the face.

"Please try not to worry. It's an arrow wound, but it appears that he took care of it. There is no present sign of infection as far as I can tell, however we both know that can change, as the healing process is far from over." He put a hand on the other man's shoulder. "Please calm yourself," he spoke lower, "we need to get him to the healing wards, there I can administer to his wounds, it will do no good to get upset now."

Courtesy suddenly went out the window as Boromir knelt down and gently picked his brother up, cradling him against his chest. He ignored the healers indignant remarks about causing his brother discomfort as he carried him hastily to the Houses of Healing; he knew that he would cause his brother no more harm this day, despite what Morcion said.

Carefully he laid his brother down on the first unoccupied bed he found. He tried to arrange him to be comfortable, but the look on his brother's face said anything but content. Hearing a commotion in the hall, he turned to see his father come bustling through the door, followed by a frustrated healer.

"Lord Denethor, if you please…"

"I want to see my son."

"Yes, I understand that, but it was still no reason to smack me!" The healer stood indignantly in front of the steward, demanding an apology of sorts.

"Sir!" Denethor bellowed out angrily, before softening his voice, "I do not want to lose another one."

The room was filled with silence as the trained healer nodded sympathetically. He brushed Boromir aside once again and checked the young man over. Boromir respectably gave the man room. The stubborn attitude, he considered with amusement, might be connected to his relationship to the infamous Ioreth. Boromir pushed the thoughts out of his mind and concentrated on the healer side of Morcion before him.

The wound was still bleeding, but it was not an immediate threat. His face was pale from blood loss and his eyes looked heavy from exhaustion. He heavily suspected the arrow was not the only reason for his comatose state; the man looked utterly worn. A closer examination also revealed mild dehydration. When Faramir woke up, they were going to have a talk. First things first though, stopping the bleeding.

The wound had been wrapped well and the bleeding had stopped, Faramir at least had done that much for himself. Evidently he must have torn the wound open again, causing the fresh flow of blood. A sudden movement the wrong way would have done that easily. If Boromir had grabbed his shoulder as he said, he would have aggravated it.

The healer glared at the older sibling. He had meant well, but hadn't helped too much. Although, if anything, he had prevented the man from tearing it open while sleeping and bleeding to death during the night.

The bleeding had nearly stopped now and the wound was starting to clot again. He decided that wrapping a fresh bandage over it and let it heal naturally would be the best course of action, and turned for the bowl of clean water he had sent for.

He washed it gently to help fight off infection then had Boromir help prop Faramir up while he wrapped fresh linen bandages around his shoulder. He sighed when he heard Faramir groan in protest, glad to hear some sort of response. As they laid him back down they were met with two, weary, heavy lidded eyes.

"Boromir?" His eyes were searching for the familiar face. Morcion used this moment to slip from the room, leaving the family alone.

"Right here, little brother, right here." Boromir clasped his brother's hand firmly and squeezed.

"So tired…" His head rolled to the side, spying his father on his left.

"It's alright, rest now, rest and get better."

"No, I have to report." He got louder and seemed to get upset when Boromir tried to hush him. "I have to report to father…"

"It's alright my son, that can wait, it can wait." Denethor watched his youngest son, fully awake now. Curiosity got the better of him. "What happened?" He said it almost without thinking.

Faramir's mouth twitched into a twisted sort of smile. "Orcs. But I got the best of them." His eyes drifted shut for a moment. "Can't say their arrows feel too good though." A shiver went involuntarily down the spines of the other two Hurins. Orc arrows did not bode well for Faramir's recovery; the vermin were so filthy there was no telling what was drug into Faramir's shoulder with the arrowhead.

"It's alright. I know what you're thinking, both of you. It's alright; I cleaned it out at a stream as soon as I could. I'm just worn, that's all."

Denethor bit back his thoughts on how easily infection could set in and instead brushed the hair out of his son's face. Already his eyes were drooping shut and he did not wish to stop them. Sleep was ultimately the best medicine.

"Then rest Faramir, just rest and get better."

_That's all I wanted…_ The wave of darkness came quickly as sleep took him, plunging him into sweet relief.

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Tbc...? Let me know! 


	3. The Arrow

Wpw, chapter three! Thanks for all the reviews, I am glad to know that people are interested in my story. Well, here's the thir chapter, I have to run to class now! Enjoy!!!! (Still don't own Lord of the Rings...)

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For Blood is Thicker

Hours later he awoke. Eyes wide open he stared at the ceiling, panting, listening, waiting…

"Welcome back." That voice, he was still there.

Faramir struggles to sit up, remembering not to use his right arm so carelessly again. There was a lone candle lit mixing with the starlit illumination filtering in from the window. "Father?"

"Would you please sit still and stop trying to kill yourself?" Faramir knew he was only teasing, yet stilled nonetheless.

"Father?" Faramir peered into his eyes, searching for an answer to the distant look on Denethor's face.

"I thought I was to lose you too," he whispered, snapping out of his daze. Then Faramir understood. He was only five when it had happened, but he understood. Something about Denethor was never the same after that.

He used Boromir to carry the city, the broad shoulders probably reminded him of the strength he once had. Faramir on the other hand, well, Faramir tried to stay out of Denethor's way, lest he upset his lord and father. His father loved him, he knew it; that Denethor was sitting besides his bed was proof that he did. Faramir wasn't sure what it was, did he resembled his mother, were his mannerisms similar? Or was it just because of what happened, did his father blame him?

Faramir looked back at his father; Denethor smiled back. No, Denethor did not blame him. It just seemed there was a barrier, a distance between then that could never fully be breached. Faramir sighed and settled into the bed, allowing himself to relax. _That's nothing to think about now. _He closed his eyes sighed again. now was time to rest. He heard Denethor shift in his chair. The sound of wood scraping on stone could be heard and Faramir sighed heavily. _Well, I couldn't expect him to stay forever._

He soon drifted back to sleep, only to be awakened a few moments later at the sound of a door. _Boromir._ He opened his eyes cheerily to welcome the company. "Father?"

"Is that all you say anymore?" Denethor chuckled, setting a wooden mug on the small table beside him. He then reached over and used the candle to light a torch on the wall. It took a few moments of holding the small flame to the larger base, but soon a small, warm, glow bathed the room.

"Here, I thought you might be thirsty." Faramir eyes his father questioningly. "Ok, that old tyrant of a healer had me bring it, but I would have thought of it eventually." The two of them shared a laugh. _It is good to laugh again._ Boromir tells me you haven't eaten in a while either," he alleged, helping his son prop himself upright. Faramir would have gulped it all had Denethor not pulled the cup away, preventing him from choking on the life sustaining water.

"Don't you take care of yourself these days? Do I have to feed you too?" He jested as he allowed Faramir another sip.

_Please father, I know what you would say, but I did not mean to do so._ "I did not have time to eat, if that is what you are referring to. Or do you speak of the hole in my shoulder?" _Right to the point. _He watched his father's eyes, waiting for the signal to continue.

"I came across a band of orcs sometime after midday. Combat was unavoidable as they had spotted me as well. As you can tell, I was shot, but I did worse to them."

The scene was all too fresh in his memory. He hadn't meant to cross the orcs path. He had spotted the orcs hiding from the sun in a cluster of trees. The orcs were quick to draw their bows when they saw him, not far from were they had been lounging. Faramir was knocked back as one of their arrows impacted with his shoulder, but he ignored it, dispatching the archer in a moment. The fire spreading through his shoulder was too much then. He took to the sword, disabled as he was forced to fight with his left hand.

The party of orcs was small; only four, minus the downed archer, and Faramir was quick to slay them. Knowing full well that they were a scouting party, he fled for his horse, leaving the area behind.

It had been almost an hour before he had been able to find a stream. By this time he was weary and stumbling as he slid from the horse. He had left the arrow where it was to stop the bleeding and he could feel the arrow head pressing into his flesh every time he moved his arm. He used his left hand to dig through his saddle bags, praying for something clean to wrap his shoulder in. By some miracle, he actually had stray bandages near the bottom.

He knelt by the stream, shoulder held over the water so any blood would wash away, and clenched his eyes; this would hurt, very much so. The pain almost took him under as the sharp metal head was removed from his flesh. But he had to act quickly. He removed his outer jerkin and slipped his tunic off after it. He then placed a wet bandage over the wound, washing the blood and filth away.

He re-soaked the bandage, allowing the water to cover his shoulder, the coolness relieving the pain. He then tossed the bandage aside and used his tunic to dab his shoulder dry so he could wrap it. A few minutes later he was attempting to remount his horse. His only goal now was getting back to the city. There he would be safe, he would be able to rest there.

As long as he was careful, he knew his shoulder would heal fine. He would make his report to his father; orcs were roaming heavier in Ithilien. He would be silent about the wound; he would not stir up attention. He hated the way Denethor looked at him with those loathing eyes; he would go to bed and take care of himself. He hunched over on his mare and let the reins slack; she knew the way, she would take him home.

Faramir's cheek twitched as he recalled the grueling ride home. By the time he had reached the city he was spent. He shook his head, clearing his mind of the memory. _Not promising for a good rest._ He was still exhausted. But there was still one question to be asked.

"Where's Boromir?"

Denethor chuckled. _If only father would laugh more often._ "Outside your room, guarding the door."

"Well that seems rather unnecessary." Faramir said annoyed.

"I know, but try telling him that." Denethor shook his head. "I imagine the second I leave he will be in here, don't worry."

"Well tell Boromir I'm going to sleep." He said indignantly. He nestled himself down, burrowing his head into the soft pillow. He flinched when he heard a loud voice resonate through the door.

"I heard that!" The door flew open and a tall figure strode into the room. "Hello little brother, feeling up to dinner yet?"

Faramir rolled his eyes. "I'm tired Boromir. I want to sleep." He struggled to suppress a yawn, to no avail.

Boromir shuddered; remembering what happened last time Faramir had told him that. He took a step back; he did not wish to cause his brother harm again. Faramir's eyes beckoned him come back to him. Boromir smiled, ran his fingers through his brother's hair. "Then sleep, you goose. We can eat later."

_You big donkey…_ "Yes later." _Now let me sleep…please._ Before he knew it his eyes had drooped shut, refusing to stay open any longer. He smiled as dreams began to claim him once more. His father was sitting in the chair beside him, his brother standing by his head. One held his hand, the other stroked his hair. When had they last been this close?

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Thanks again for the reviews...I guess I'll continue on! 


	4. How Things Are

**Sorry this took so tremendously long...not intentional, believe me! End of smester busines, then writers block then...um...I kind of forgot...but you can pretend I didn't just write that. I hope you like the end...please let me know what you think, maybe I'll be bold enough to write another story!...**

**So please enjoy, and let me know how it is. Again, sorry it took soooo long!**

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For Blood is Thicker

"Wait up!" Faramir stopped and waited for his brother to catch up. It was a week since he had come home and given his family a scare and he was glad that he was recovering quickly. He leaned against the rail as he waited on the staircase. Hs brother came running down the hall, making his way for the steps.

Faramir smiled as he watched his brother. He reached the stairs, hardly slowing for the first step. He sped down the staircase. Faramir's face sank as he watched his brother's foot catch, and give out; his body tipped forward, and fell, rolling down the last dew stairs.

Faramir was powerless to do anything as Boromir tumbled past him. He rushed down the stairs, mindful not to trip, and knelt by his brother.

"Boromir? Are you alright?" He helped his brother roll over.

"What just happened?"

"You fell down the stairs." Had his brother hit his head that hard?

"That's what I was afraid of. I cannot believe I just did that!"

Faramir shook his head. "Are you hurt?"

"My pride?" Boromir offered back.

Faramir rolled his eyes. "Never mind that, are you alright?"

"Well, my head hurts for one," he rubbed a small bump forming on his head. "My ankle feels weird too; I think I may have sprained it."

"Brilliant, you had to fall down the stairs. Can you walk?" He offered his brother a hand.

Boromir hauled himself up, with help. "I'll have to lean against you." Faramir took his brother's weight against him, slinging Boromir's arm over his left shoulder. He kept the arm tight against him with his right arm, which soon caused to be a problem.

The two brothers shuffled down the hall. Silence fell on them; they knew their father would not be happy now that both of his sons were indisposed.

Faramir grimaced at the thought. He hoped Denethor wouldn't place blame on him for his brother's injury. A wave of pain interrupted his thoughts as his shoulder was suddenly aggravated. His brother's weight was putting a goodly amount of pressure on the wound and the pain was building. Still, Boromir had to have his ankle seen to, so he bit his lip and hoisted his brother's weight up higher on his shoulder.

He blinked against the pain and looked up. He saw a glint of blonde hair and he looked down the hall. "Imrahil!" He called out. "Uncle!"

Imrahil had been sorting through some paperwork. Orcs reported to be gathering near Osgiliath; Boromir would have to take some men down and clean things up. He heard his name called and instantly recognized his nephew's voice. He turned and frowned; from the looks of things this wouldn't bode well.

He jogged towards the two and was quick to take the older brother's weight against him.

"Staircase." Faramir supplied the answer for the unspoken question.

"You fell down the stairs, Boromir?" Imrahil glared at the man.

"Alright, I fell down the stairs! My ankle hurts and my head is aching, so can we stop talking and find Morcion already?"

Imrahil shook his head and grinned, they would deal with Denethor later, only then would Boromir know the full extent of his head ache.

"How could you fall down the steps? You great oaf!" The voice of Denethor echoed down the hall. "Well," he calmed down, "it could be worse." The extent of the injury was minor; the ankle was swollen and sore, but he would be back in order in roughly three or four weeks.

Morcion tied off the wrap he had just put on the ankle and silently stole from the room. His place was healing, not family business.

Denethor shook his head in frustration. "You were to lead a foray to Osgiliath, now what am I to do?"

"Send someone else obviously!" Boromir grumped back. "For the tenth time, it was an accident, I was merely trying to catch Faramir…" he stopped mid sentence, not wanting to pin the blame on his brother.

"Are you then saying it was Faramir's fault?"

"No, of course not!" Boromir jumped up in defiance, wobbled for a moment and fell back on the bed grasping his ankle. Denethor shook his head; he didn't know what to do anymore.

"Faramir!" He knew his youngest was waiting out in the corridor. "Faramir, you will go in his stead."

"Father, no!" Boromir kept his place on the edge of the bed this time, but did not stop the anger from rising in his voice. "He is still recovering; see how he still carries his shoulder with caution? How can he fight?"  
"Then he need not fight, but I still need someone to take the men down to the riverside."

"Imrahil can do it…"  
"Imrahil is helping me with paperwork…"

"Then have Anborn do it."

"Anborn is going to Ithilien, we have need of the rangers there, you know this."

Faramir stood inside the doorway this whole conversation, his head resting against the woodwork. He knew in the end who would win out. He sighed and shuffled slowly down the hallway. _Best go prepare now._

"You will take fifty men to the river just north of Osgiliath. Dispatch any orcs you find and scout the area before returning. I expect you to bring back a good report…" Faramir barely heard the words. This was mostly ceremonial procedure, Denethor had already talked with him concerning the little foray he would embark on. It really would be an easy assignment for him. There had been word of orcs on the far side of river, possibly crossing. He was to take men and rid the banks of their existence.

Faramir was unable, as of yet, to draw his bow, but he would have good men with him, he was there for leadership. _Still,_ he sighed,_ it would make more sense to send someone who could actually wield their own sword, who could fight._ Denethor had charged one of the men to keep an eye on Faramir, which made his youngest feel like a young, inexperienced soldier again.

Faramir blinked the glazed look from his eyes. His father had stopped talking; it was time to pay attention again.

"I expect you back soon." The words were simple but Faramir knew his father too well, there was much more to it than that. Across the room he heard another man shift uncomfortably on his feet. Misinterpretation, that was all.

'Don't mess up.' That's what they heard. Many times Denethor would use words like these to send a message, such as 'don't mess up' or 'don't screw up this time', but Faramir knew how to translate his father very well. This time the message was different, and the men shifting uncomfortably across the room were wrong, they had to be. Faramir bowed his head and departed, trying to think positive…not an easy feat, yet a faint smile etched his face, thinking on his father's words.

Denethor nodded and watched his son leave. The door closed and the sound echoed through the chamber. It was then that Denethor brought a hand to his bowed head, as his last thoughts to Faramir echoed continuously. _Be careful, Faramir my son, be careful! _


	5. Blood on Our Hands

**Ok, I got another chapter up! And this time without taking two months...sorry about again. It was a little confusing posting the last chapter, it replaced the note I had up, so if anyone reading this chapter is confused like crazy, you might have missed the _real_ chapter four, and might want to go back to that...just a suggestion. Things take a bit of a turn in this chapter, um...well, you'll see, but I hope no one hates me for it...no throwing books at me! (please?) Ok, well, let me know what you think, if it's really awfull or not, so I know what direction to take for the next chapter.**

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For Blood is Thicker

_This couldn't be any more wrong, even if I were missing my arm,_ observed Faramir as he led a group of twenty men towards Osgiliath. They were only halfway to there and his shoulder was already on fire. Suddenly his mare stumbled and he couldn't suppress the groan that burst from his mouth.

He bit lip and glanced sideways at Beridhren, the man Denethor had appointed to look after him. He felt like a child and didn't want Beridhren seeing him in such obvious pain, but the man missed nothing. He took his job seriously and Faramir knew he was about to be asked for the fifth time if he was alright. He sighed and nodded in reply. Many of them thought it was, if anything, foolish to have Faramir leading this campaign when he was still recovering, and neither Faramir nor Beridhren were an exception.

Faramir could barely lift his arm holding his sword, and his bow was out of the question as that was a tremendous strain. If anything he could fight left handed, but he knew Beridhren wouldn't allow it. He would be lucky if he were allowed of the horse! Faramir rolled his eyes at the irony of the situation. If only Beridhren were leading the sortie and not Faramir! Faramir, however, unlike Beridhren, had leadership experience and was skilled with the man, so even handicapped he wasn't a complete burden. And, Faramir knew, if he were needed, he would fight, despite what Beridhren, or anyone else said. This was his country to protect too!

Faramir was desperately hoping his father was wrong, that there were no orcs and that they could return the next day, no battle memories haunting their minds as they rode. He wished that the river banks were clear of any sign of the filth, that the trip was pointless. He sighed and kept riding, soon they would be there.

_Why is he never wrong?_ They had barely reached the shore when orcs had sprung at them from the trees. The men were caught off guard, expecting them to be across the river, and a few were lost to the surprise.

Faramir silently grieved for the three men already fallen and leapt off his horse, ignoring Beridhren's shouts of protest. He was determined to be of some use, somehow. He tried his sword arm again, but after the ride couldn't move it while he held is heavy broadsword. _So much for that,_ he thought and quickly witched hands to block an approaching orc. All around him the sounds of battle filled his ears, but they were distant, like waves crashing on a beach in the background. He concentrated on his movements, schooling his right arm tactics into his left. Some orcs were caught off guard by the different angle their enemy was striking and Faramir smiled knowing he had a slight advantage on a couple of the beasts.

He knew his motions were not as swift as usual and that is energy was low, but he clenched his teeth and fought through it. At one point though, he had to stop and catch his breath. He glanced behind him to make sure he was safe and leaned on his sword for but a moment, willing his breath to come back and his vision to clear.

"Faramir!" Before he could react he felt his body being shoved, hard. He stumbled sideways and barely managed to keep his feet, but soon fell to his knees in shock of what he witnessed.

As he had staggered his eyes searched for the source. Beridhren's eyes locked with his he stumbled, recovering from the force of Beridhren's body ramming into his own. He saw the eyes go wide in shock; draw together in pain, saw his body crumble, his head nearly severed from the strike. Faramir gasped, looked up, and saw the orc sneering down at him. Without hesitation Faramir lunged forward, thrusting his sword at the beast.

The orc was quick enough to parry the strike and forced Faramir's sword down. Faramir recovered as best he could, but not before he felt metal tear through the upper part of his arm. His left arm was no screaming in pain, though he knew the cut was not deep. He would not be rendered useless though, not after what Beridhren just did. With new found energy he swung his blade up and drove it into the orc's chest with all his might. A moment later it was all over, and he was kneeling by the body of his brother in arms.

"Faramir!" Faramir heard his name being called and looked up. Damrod was the man's name, if he recalled correctly. _Probably wants to get me away from…from this…_ He stood walked and motioned that he was fine. He swayed for a moment, letting air back in his lungs after unknowingly holding his breath, and he made his way over to Damrod.

"I'm not hurt." He mumbled as he collapsed to his knees. He stared into the distance, vaguely aware that Damrod was calling his name. His focus came back as he felt a hand on his should and looked up.

"Faramir?" One word, yet such a potent question.

"Fine, I'm fine, just a scratch on my arm." He muttered, accepting the hand extended towards him. He wanted to turn, go back to the Beridhren, but Damrod's hand stayed him as he slipped an arm around the young captain's shoulder.

"Not now Faramir, don't look there now." He wanted to get the man off of his feet, his arm seen to, and hopefully, some food in their bellies. Carefully he guided him away, to the edge of the ending battle and sat him down in the grass. "Are you certain you are not injured?" He asked one final time, fearful, by Faramir's silence, that he was hiding something from him.

Faramir only had one reply for him, "he saved my life…" and he would say nothing more for the time. After a few moments the men were searching the ground for fallen friends, but Faramir stayed where he was. He did not wish to look upon the dead, only lay down and forget. He knew that they should stay there overnight, scout for more orcs the next day before returning, but he couldn't. He made arrangements for the dead to be taken care of and ordered to mount up. He had to get back to the citadel, had to escape to his own room, his own bed. He had to forget.


	6. The Return

**Alright, I know! It took me forever!! You can throw rotten eggs at me _after_ I finish the story, which I promise you, won't take me another year. When I woke up this morning, my muse hit me on the head with a horseshoe (sorry, one track mind...big horse show on Sunday!) and I've been working on this since. I have the next chapter so close to being finished, I can feel it burning beneath my fingers! I appologize though, I have a rodeo tonight, and work tomorrow, so the update will have to wait till tomorrow night.**

**Again, sorry this took forever, I really hope you guys still like the story. As usual...I don't own anything...**

"My lord, your son is back

"My lord, your son is back."

Denethor looked up from the paper he was reading and stared at the messenger. He had not expected him back quite this soon.

"Well, where is he?" He looked into the corridor beyond, expecting to see his youngest in the doorway, perhaps examining the woodwork; a thing they'd all done at some point or other.

"He is in his quarters, sir."

Denethor stood sharply. "He has not come to harm, I trust?"

"No, he is merely…composing himself…before he came to see you." The man quickly stepped to the side as Denethor brushed past him, muttering that he would go see Faramir himself.

Denethor found the door closed and knocked softly on the hard frame. "Faramir?"

"You may enter." A quiet voice came from within.

"I did not expect you back so soon, was there any trouble?"

"Enough to kill five of the men." Faramir sighed and relaxed when Denethor joined him in sitting on the edge of the bed; no argument this time.

"You are not hurt? Did Beridhren keep you out of trouble?" Faramir winced at the question but nodded nonetheless. "Where is he?"

"I expect by now, somewhere in Osgiliath."

"He did not come back with you?" Faramir felt his father's blood rising, but his own blood was rushing in his ears.

"He's dead, father." There was a moment of silence as both Hurins sat and stared off numbly. "He was protecting me."

Denethor stood, turning from his youngest.

"Do you not mourn him?" Faramir spat in disbelief.

"I do, I do…it is hard for someone in my position…and your uncle…this will be most hard for him as well…Beridhren was his godchild."

"His godchild?" Faramir repeated in surprise. "This does nothing to help the burden weighing upon me."

"You should go to him, your uncle, that is." Denethor stumbled through his words. "I, I am sorry Faramir." Denethor turned his head from his youngest son and let out a deep sigh.

"Sorry? You're sorry? Oh I'm sure that will make everything better. A man is dead, because you sent me, instead of someone otherwise capable of defending himself! Beridhren is dead because you wanted to send me!"

"I had to, the position I am, it was expected of me to send one of my sons. And with Boromir's leg…I had to Faramir, it was expected…"

"Expected! It was expected, so you had to!" Faramir sprung to his feet, throwing his father a frustrated look. "Well here's what I say; tomorrow when more men are sent down to scour the area for more orcs, you can _expect_ me to stay here, in bed! I need my rest, and you should have seen that in the first place, or was I _expecting_ too much?"

"I'll see you at breakfast, that much, surely, you _can _do."

"We'll see." Faramir sank back onto his bed and buried his head in his hands. He needed to be alone. He glanced at his father between his fingers, glaring at him, hoping he would receive the message.

Denethor hurried from the chamber, leaving Faramir alone. Faramir was angry and upset and Denethor wanted to string him up by his toes right now, but he knew that once he calmed down, the both of the really, they would be able to talk. Until then, it was better to stay out of range of the dog's teeth!

**I will be updating...SOON! I promise you that. I just hope there are still people out there reading this...**


	7. The Loss

**This was not my originally intended chapter, however I felt I must share this. For my grandmother, who has been dying painfully of cancer for some time, I can't help but feel afraid. And for my grandfather, I can only imagine what he is feeling. I worry, and I fear, and I pray... I thought perhaps Denethor felt something similar, so I put thoughts down in writing, and felt it must be shared. And also, what my fiance told me tonight, that love always outweighs the burden. **

**So, for my grandmother, and any who wish read, I give you Denethor's chapter. I hope to continue writing soon, but currently I don't know what exactly is going to happen in life...so until then, please enjoy...**

Denethor ambled down the hall, memories clashing through his mind in mild turmoil. He and Faramir had always knocked heads, always. Was it because they were too much alike in the wrong ways, not enough alike in the right ones? Because he was so much like her….Finduilas….oh Finduilas….

He remembered all too well when he had lost Finduilas. He had sat with her all that night, watching, waiting, praying to whomever might be listening; not his Finduilas. Had his heart ever beat more strongly with love for her, or felt so wretched with the fear of losing her? And oh when she was gone, the wretched feeling only grew, how that aching feeling had consumed him. He remembered how he felt that day…

_Love? What exactly was love? He used to believe it was eternal happiness, an amazing peace and joy that he felt with her. But now…it was just an empty feeling. Was love, whatever love is, worth all this pain, this horrible loss? How can, at one moment, life be so full of joy, and at another…was there a word for how he felt? Sad, no, so much more than sad, lonely…no, that wasn't it. Empty, he felt empty, to the core. _

_How could he ever love again, knowing the feeling of this horrible loss, knowing that it would only come to this in the end? How could he let himself become attached, only to be ripped away….without a goodbye… there was this emptiness inside of him that could never be filled. He would not suffer himself to love, not like before. He could love his city, his home, oh he could love Gondor forever, he could love that which they defended, he could love war, the feel of battle raging around him, as adrenaline surged through him. But to love a person…no, a person could be taken away too easily. There would always be more battles to wage, a city to protect…but a life, a fragile, human life? _

_Then there were his sons. Boromir was strong, a likeness to himself when he was younger. He had heard Boromir crying at night, alone in his room. But never in public. Faramir on the other hand, he was so young, too young. He barely understood, he was always moping about, sniffling, crying. When would he grow up, learn? He would not shower him with hugs and kisses, no! He had to be taught to be strong, keep his chin up. He is still young, but that merely means he is at an impressionable age. But he will learn, even if I must be hard on him. I love him so…but how can I after this? _

_Many would argue that during times like these we should be strong, for each other, always stay close. But that's the problem! Being close means risking the pain, the loss…how could he go through that loss? Didn't those idiots at court see that? That is was because how close he had been to her, how dearly he had loved her, that he felt the pain this strongly, that he kept to himself, pushed his sons away? When would they see that it was love that was the problem?_

_He had loved her so much, so very much. How could anything ever be worth this much pain though? This sort of ache, he knew, would never go away. It would stay there, deep in his heart, wearing away at him, never letting him forget, with each and every beat, how much he hurt, how deep the pain ran. There would be no relief, he would weep his bitter tears, continue life alone…..alone. Would this empty feeling never leave him?_

_Why? Why did she have to leave him, with a city to rule, a country to protect, two boys to raise…..why? He couldn't do this on his own. How was he to raise two sons, when he couldn't handle his own feelings? He felt he could no longer love? There was always encouragement that he could offer, remind them always of their duty to the city, before themselves, he could be strong; for them. But could he love them? Really love them? Faramir…always reaching out for a hug, he feels the loss too. Can I be there for him, be two parents for him….? Love him, as two parents…? The pain, the loss…… no….it's just too much…._

Denethor leaned against a pillar and sighed. How long it had been since he had last dwelled on those thoughts. How had they surfaced so suddenly? How had trying to teach Faramir to be strong turned to pushing him away? When had his loss, this feeling of never loving again turned to such bitterness? He recalled the last few years. They barely felt like sons to him…just pawns, like himself…in this huge game of life.

A grain of sand, tossed in the ever churning ocean, swirled in the relentless waters of the sea, dashed upon the rocks, and finally, washed ashore, put on display upon the glorious white beaches, only to be swept back to sea, a small insignificant grain of sand, lost, forgotten forever more. A simple grain of sand in the vast, vast sea. How small he felt, tiny, inconsequential. Life….what was life? Fragile. A chance for happiness, sadness, a menagerie of feelings, what would tomorrow bring? A smile, a frown, hope…despair? When had love become so lost? How had he drifted away so far, let the emptiness rule? Because of her, Finduilas, his love, his loss….this thing…..called life. How did it come to this?

Clearly he was missing something, he felt it in his heart, a different kind of ache. There had to be something more, something more to life. Something that made the pain worthwhile. How could he know? He had shut himself away all these years, afraid of knowing all along. Did the good truly outweigh the bad? Was the love worth the loss?

**I know, mostly ramblings, its hard to organize my thoughts right now. But the story will continue...if you guys want me to...**


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